


you’ll kill me if you stop

by chalamet



Category: Talented Mr Ripley (1999)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, basically the first step into their romantic relationship, i don’t know what else to say it’s just really cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 05:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13564059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalamet/pseuds/chalamet
Summary: Tom wanted nothing more than to lean in, lie his head on Peter’s shoulder, and trace the curves of Peter’s collarbones as one might trace the indents on a sculpture chiseled by somebody great.





	you’ll kill me if you stop

Tom Ripley awoke to the sun in his eyes and the quiet sounds of Peter Smith-Kingsley shuffling around his own kitchen as he made coffee. For a quick moment, he forget where he was, before he remembered that he had slept at Peter’s home the night before. For an even quicker moment, he forgot _who_ he was, before he remembered that he was always Tom when Peter was present.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes, turning his head left and right to try and work away an uncomfortable crick in his neck—the outcome of crashing on your friend’s couch. He faintly remembered Peter urging him to sleep in the guest room the night before, but he had assured the Englishman that he was perfectly fine on the sofa. It was casual, nearly sloppy—something Tom would’ve done back in New York and not in Italy. He supposed it was good, so characteristically himself. Still, a small part of him wondered if it was characteristic of Dickie, too.

He stretched a little, straining his legs, then reached over to the coffee table for his glasses, which he assumed he must’ve left somewhere around that general area. While he was searching, Peter carefully walked up with two white mugs in hand and placed them on little wooden coasters on the table. “A little cream and sugar, just how you like it.” He said, and Tom couldn’t help but to smile at Peter remembering how he took his coffee. “Thanks.” He had given up on feeling around the coffee table for his glasses and moved to see if they were on the end table beside the couch.

“What’re you looking for?” Peter asked, making his way around the coffee table and sitting at the opposite end of the couch, where Tom’s feet would’ve laid if his legs weren’t bent. “My glasses,” Tom answered as he turned back to face Peter’s blurred face, “I can’t find them anywhere.” Peter took a glance around the living room, and made a quiet “aha!” when his eyes landed on the end table closest to his side of the couch. He lifted Tom’s glasses into view, then told the American to sit up. Tom did, shuffling closer to Peter, and sat still as Peter slipped his glasses onto his face. It wasn’t quite as effortless to put glasses on someone else as Peter thought it would be, but Tom was grinning again and his cheeks had a slight pink glow and that was all that mattered to either of them, really.

Once his glasses were on and Peter had come into full focus, Tom suddenly realized that his friend was shirtless. It wasn’t that his vision was so bad that he wasn’t able to tell if Peter was clothed or not, it was just that he hadn’t taken an observing look at the man until that very moment. His torso was bare, decorated with a bit of dark brown hair at the chest and in a trail leading down his lower stomach, and as hot as it made Tom’s face, he couldn’t help but to stare. He had always thought Peter was beautiful, but in that moment he seemed even more striking than usual. Was that how he regularly slept? He took a look at Peter’s legs. He was wearing baggy pyjama pants with a dark plaid pattern. It just didn’t make sense for him to wear warm pants and no shirt, did it?

He looked back up at Peter’s face and found that Peter was staring right back at him. Had he been watching Tom the entire time? Tom’s cheeks only became warmer and redder at the very thought. He turned away, a pathetic excuse for staring forming at his lips even though he couldn’t find the right words to say. All that came out was a quiet “I-” before Tom gave up altogether. He was a mess.

Peter did to him what Dickie had done, and although he disliked drawing comparisons between the two, it was all too true. He made Tom blush, fumble over his words, and smile at the smallest of things. Peter was charming and dashing, much like Dickie, but he was soft where Dickie was brash. Peter would never have dared to do or say some of the things that Dickie would’ve done or said without a second thought. Tom quite liked Peter’s gentleness. He hoped to God that their relationship would never come to the same end as his and Dickie’s, because if there was anything that could’ve truly tore Tom Ripley apart, it was that.

Peter seemed to understand Tom’s embarrassment, and didn’t comment. For that, Tom was grateful. He didn’t know what he would’ve said otherwise.

What Peter _did_ , however, was lean over to grab his mug from the coffee table. His body was stretched out for Tom to see, skin over flesh and muscle and bone, the ridges of his back and the bumps of his spine, and Tom felt mesmerized. It took him back to Dickie’s bathroom, where they had once played chess over the bathtub. He was staring at Dickie’s reflection in the mirror again, his eyes fixed on the curve of Dickie’s ass. He felt the flick of the towel as Dickie whipped him with it as if it was happening all over again.

Did Peter know what he was doing to Tom? What he had been doing every time he smiled, every time he laughed, every time his eyes met Tom’s own? He wanted him, yearned for him—his hair under Tom’s fingers, his lips against Tom’s, his body within Tom’s reach at all times. It was the same desire he felt for Dickie, although he didn’t know who he had felt a stronger desire for. It didn’t make him feel sick, as he thought it probably should’ve. It only felt right.

“Peter.” He breathed the name out past his lips with the same gentle affection that Peter always showed him. After taking the coffee mug into his hands and leaning back against the couch again, Peter looked at him with eyes that sparkled, and Tom thought _yes, he knows full well what he’s doing_. “Tom.” Peter spoke in the same airy way, and Tom wanted nothing more than to lean in, lie his head on Peter’s shoulder, and trace the curves of Peter’s collarbones as one might trace the indents on a sculpture chiseled by somebody great.

They kept their eyes fixed on each other for a few long seconds that Tom wished were longer still, even though it was him who turned away shyly. He wanted to tell Peter that he thought he was falling in love, but he was nervous about it, as he was for many things when he presented himself as Tom Ripley. He didn’t wish to sorrily misjudge Peter’s feelings like he did on that little boat in San Remo with Dickie. He was sure that there was something between himself and Dickie, and then he was sure with Peter—but he was wrong once, and at a great cost. Was he willing to be wrong again?

He used to think he wasn’t, but in that moment he wasn’t so sure.

What would Dickie have said if Tom were to stare at him with such longing and intensity, the way he often stared at Peter? “Quit looking at me like that,” he’d mutter, although Tom imagined he’d be smirking at least a little, “it’s spooky.” Tom would grin and he would look away like Dickie asked. Peter never said anything, he just stared back, sometimes with a smile and sometimes with an odd look on his face that even Tom couldn’t place. Little things like that gave Tom glimmers of hope, but he was always there to overthink them, to pick them apart until they meant nothing. Why couldn’t he just leave things be? Why couldn’t he just open his mouth, let his heart pour out, hand Peter his key? He found himself wanting to.

“God, Peter, I-” and there he was again with his words caught up in his throat, but not of his own accord, because Peter had set his mug down onto the coffee table and his warm hand was on Tom’s cheek, urging his head to turn back to face Peter, which Tom did. He didn’t stop to wonder if he was in control, or if Peter had taken over and Tom had let him without even noticing. It wasn’t like he minded anyhow, not when Peter’s hand felt so soft on his cheek and his eyes were inviting and burning into Tom’s own.

“I know.” Peter whispered, and just by gazing into Peter’s eyes, Tom knew, too. He knew everything Peter had to say, everything Peter wished for, everything Peter had been holding back—because it was exactly the same as what Tom had to say, as what Tom wished for, as what Tom held back. He was suddenly overcome with the overwhelming urge to cry, accompanied by the urge to smile and laugh and pull Peter in and kiss him. In the back of his mind, he heard Aunt Dottie calling him a sissy, and for the first time he could ever recall, he didn’t care. How could he care with Peter in front of him, so loving and kind, confessing all of his feelings with two words and a longing stare?

He wanted to say so much and yet didn’t know what to say at all. Peter’s fingertips were brushing against his ear, and although he relished the tiny amount of contact, he coveted more. “Please.” he whined, almost taken aback at the needy sound of voice, which only reflected upon his current state. That single word was all he could have thought to say, but it proved to be enough, because Peter leaned in and softly pushed Tom back until he was lying on the couch and Peter was on top of him. Gently, Peter removed Tom’s glasses and placed them on the coffee table before he directed his full attention back onto Tom and leaned down to bring their lips together.

It was all Tom had wanted and more. He never imagined it feeling as fulfilling as it did, but he was beyond glad about it. Peter was firm yet so soft, affectionate and loving yet so manly. Yes, manly, nothing like a woman, and he found himself liking that. The kiss was slightly clumsy, but Tom expected no less. It was wonderful, and when Peter pulled away he took a piece of Tom with him.

Tom then began to sob, only because he couldn’t help himself. It was just like him to cry at a time like that, wasn’t it? He did feel a bit ashamed, but Peter, who kissed the corner of his lips, seemed to understand fully. He kissed his cheek, then all along his jaw, then his neck, all while hot, salty tears stung Tom’s eyes and trailed down his face. They were tears of joy, the tears that spill from children’s eyes when they receive gifts that they’ve been wanting forever. Tom wiped his cheeks with one hand and carded the other through Peter’s hair. He felt the soft kisses trail down to the crook of his neck, and just when he thought Peter would bring his head back up, he said “You’ll kill me if you stop.”

They both stilled for a moment or two. Tom hadn’t thought about those words before he spoke, hadn’t mulled over them in his head like he had been doing with everything else he said in Italy. It was the effect Peter had on him, and it scared him. He thought it might’ve been too dramatic, too desperate, all too repelling. He was ready to apologize before Peter nuzzled into the crook of his neck and _groaned_ , and at that Tom let out a high whine, as if he was finally getting the one thing he had needed the most for his whole life, but he hadn’t known he needed it until he had received it. Peter kept kissing him around his neck then down to his collarbones, covering all the skin he could get to with affection.

Tom wished for nothing more than to live in the moment, but a part of him began to wonder if he would’ve been as pleased as he was if he had been living out the moment with Dickie instead of Peter. Would it have felt like a bigger accomplishment? Would Tom have felt a greater sense of satisfaction? God, he hated how he always overthought things. What he wouldn’t give to flick that little switch in his brain and become carefree Dickie again. Why did he have to spend so much time in his own mind when all he had hoped for was laid out in front of him?

Peter’s fumbling with the top button on Tom’s dress shirt pulled him out of his thoughts. The brown button dug into his skin a little as Peter slipped it out of the buttonhole, but once it was free, Peter tugged each side apart and was met with a whole new expanse of skin to shower in kisses. Tom’s lips tugged into a smile, and he ran his fingers through Peter’s hair as Peter nosed at his chest. He’d have liked to think that he wouldn’t have been as elated if it were Dickie instead of Peter, because although Dickie made him feel so special and loved, he was all too capable of making Tom feel worthless. Peter wasn’t like that at all, and Tom was never wondering if he’d be welcomed by Peter or pushed away. It gave him assurance that he never had with Dickie.

Feeling bold, Tom brought both his hands to either side of Peter’s face. “Come here.” he murmured, and Peter did, shifting back upwards so his face was level with Tom’s. Tom would have never been so daring if Dickie was the man on top of him, even though his words were barely daring in the slightest. One wrong move and Dickie could’ve gone from loving to sour. He quite enjoyed not having to worry about that with Peter. With that, he brought Peter’s face down and kissed him again. Their parted lips worked together beautifully, and all Tom felt was bliss.

Then, without warning, Peter moved his hips and God, he was hard, and Tom abruptly became aware of his own cock, stiffening in his pants. Tom didn’t mean to moan, but he did, and so did Peter. An acute feeling of nervousness immediately took him over, and his face became all too hot.

Peter pulled back further to stare him right in the eyes, as if he was looking for assurance. Tom’s eyes, full of anxiety and a bit of fear, didn’t supply any. He wasn’t ready for that, although he wished he was.

“Peter, I-” he fumbled with his words yet again. His voice sounded slightly scared, but when didn’t it?

“It’s alright, Tom-” Peter’s demeanour was full of softness and understanding.

“I’ve never-” never felt another man’s groin on mine, never moaned into another man’s mouth, never went any further.

“I know. I know.” at Peter’s words, Tom exhaled in relief. His hands, which had been shaking faintly, steadied themselves. He leaned in and gave Peter a quick, chaste kiss, and then Peter leaned down and nuzzled into his cheek. They stayed like that for a while, Peter breathing quietly as Tom stroked his hair, before Peter said “Our coffee’s getting cold.”

Tom hummed, and when Peter pulled himself up into a sitting position, so did Tom. Peter grabbed both their mugs from the table and handed one to Tom, who took it and sipped from it. It was a little too sweet for his liking, but he didn’t mind at all.

“Shall we do this again sometime?” Peter quipped, and Tom smiled, not being able to help tilting his head downwards out of shyness. He wanted to grab Peter and kiss him again and mutter “yes” into his lips over and over again, but he was timid and careful and not like that, not like Dickie, no matter how hard he tried sometimes.

So, all he did was look at Peter, his eyes a clear window into what he was thinking, what he was feeling—and Peter looked back and knew the answer.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah the title is a quote from call me by your name. sue me


End file.
